by J M Gregson
‘“And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.”’
He cackled, that mirthful, high-pitched peal they had heard before, but which still startled them. ‘I do occasionally find the time to dip into my books, which is more than I can say for some of my colleagues.’
Peach smiled. ‘Goldsmith has something for everyone, even detectives,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t it he who said, “The true use of speech is not so much to express our wants as to conceal them”? I often find that’s true, when I’m interviewing people.’
Culpepper was delighted. ‘You’re wasted in the police force, Percy Peach.’ Both the CID officers wondered how he had got Percy’s nickname, unheard of outside police circles. As Malcolm McLean had told them earlier that afternoon, this man seemed to know about everything that was going on around him. ‘Should be more read than he is nowadays, old Oliver Goldsmith. “No man was more foolish when he had not a pen in his hand, or more wise when he had.” Samuel Johnson said that of him: pompous old fart at times, the Doctor, but rarely wrong about people. What can I do for you, Inspector Peach and glorious comrade?’
The sudden switch from learned levity to the serious issue might have disconcerted some people, but Peach was used to this hopping, bright-eyed magpie. ‘You can tell us what you were doing last Saturday night,’ he said with a smile.
Culpepper’s face changed as rapidly as a schoolboy’s from mirth to concern. ‘I wasn’t here. I was up in Settle at my —’
‘Until eleven thirty you were, yes. What about the next three hours?’
‘Is that when Claptrap Carter was killed?’
‘Yes. Almost certainly.’
‘Ah! And you have intelligence that I was abroad at that time. The clergyman has peached on me to Peach!’ He cackled at his wordplay. ‘I should have known better than to confide in an Anglican priest. Swift said you couldn’t trust them, and he should have known, he was one of them!’
There was something febrile about him now, and they realized he was diverting his nervousness into a spatter of words. Peach said, ‘The Reverend Matthews had no choice, Dr Culpepper: we had him against the wall at the time — metaphorically speaking, of course.’ They grinned at each other across the big desk. ‘Where were you after ten thirty on Saturday, please?’
‘Wandering round the campus. I’m sorry, but there it is.’
‘Until what time?’
‘I can’t be precise. We got back from Settle about half-past eleven. My wife said she was going straight up to bed, but I couldn’t settle. I tried reading, but my head was splitting. My own fault: I’d drunk too much red wine at my son’s house, then topped it off with a couple of glasses of port — I knew Patricia was going to drive us home, you see. But while the booze goes down very nicely at the time, I suffer later, these days. I took a couple of aspirins, then went out for a walk, at about half-past midnight, I suppose. I did a full circuit of the campus, as I used to do when our old dog was alive.’ The red, humorous face of Mr Punch was suddenly melancholic with the thought of mortality.
‘Did you meet anyone who can confirm this for us?’
He smiled sadly. ‘Come on, Percy Peach, you know the answer to that. I wouldn’t have asked the clergy to help me out if I’d had anything better available, would I?’
Percy forced himself to remain grave and unsmiling. This might be a murderer who was playing word games with him. ‘How long does a circuit of the campus take?’
‘I wasn’t hurrying, so the best part of an hour. It was certainly well after one when I got back.’
‘So on your own admission, there is no one to account for what you were doing between, say, midnight and half-past one last Saturday night. You were out on the campus on your own, very probably at the very time when Dr Carter was killed.’
‘And I hated old Claptrap, didn’t I? And I might, just might, become the Director in his place.’ He thrust two bony wrists forward at Peach, so that they projected like white sticks from his cuffs. ‘It’s a fair cop, guv’nor! Put the bracelets on me, I won’t give you no trouble.’
Peach looked at the wrists and held his face impassive until they were slowly withdrawn. ‘Did you see anything on your walk which might help us?’
The thin red face looked crafty. ‘I saw that bearded chemistry teacher, McLean. Talking to some bloke I didn’t recognize, in the shadows, near his chemistry lab. I remember wondering what he was doing on the campus, at that time on a Saturday night, when he wasn’t even resident. I might have asked McLean to confirm my presence, but I doubt whether he saw me, and then I found you’d taken him in anyway — it was me who had to cancel his lectures.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. I was nearly hit by some student roaring up the main drive on a motorcycle, so I kept to the smaller paths after that. It was dark, but I’ve lived on this site for years — long before we became a university!’ He pronounced the last word with bitter irony, as his comment on modern academic standards.
Lucy Blake shut her notebook. ‘Carry on thinking, please, Dr Culpepper. Anything else you recall from that time may be helpful to you as well as to us.’
‘For you, my luscious one, I shall cudgel my brain without mercy!’ He looked her up and down with what she could only afterwards recall as an affectionate leer. ‘I expect that is politically very incorrect.’
She smiled back as she and Peach stood up. ‘Extremely incorrect, I’m sure. I shall forgive you, if you can provide us with useful information.’
As they drove away from the old mansion at the centre of the UEL, Lucy said with a touch of irritation, ‘He doesn’t seem terribly worried. But I’m sure that man would go down to hell with a smile on his face!’
Twenty
‘Sorry to bother you on a Saturday morning, but it’s necessary, I’m afraid.’
He sounded apologetic, and he gave her one of his smiles. The flawless coffee-coloured skin and huge brown eyes of Carmen Campbell made even Percy Peach polite, thought Lucy Blake, as she followed him into the flat. Or was it the long, athletic legs and the shimmer of her hips beneath the plaid skirt as she led them into the neat living room? Coffee in a large blue pot was already on the table, though at Peach’s suggestion she had given Carmen only twenty minutes’ notice of this visit. At half-past nine on a Saturday morning, the flat was neat and tidy, smelling as fresh and wholesome as its occupant.
The modern room was also as elegant and startling as Carmen Campbell. It had a dark blue wall and three very pale yellow ones, whose austerity was broken by David Hockney prints. There was a sideboard of rich dark rosewood, on which stood colour photographs of a smiling, white-haired West Indian couple on a surf-fringed beach.
‘Your parents?’ asked Lucy Blake.
‘That’s right. They’re both dead now.’ She picked up the half-plate picture in its silver frame, looked for a moment at those smiling faces frozen in time, and then set it down carefully and precisely in the spot from which she had lifted it. She poured the coffee from the pot. ‘You’ll have to have it in mugs, I’m afraid, it’s all I deal in! And don’t let the coffee pot fool you: it’s instant.’
Neither of them would have known that. The coffee was hot and strong, with the aroma of newly ground beans. When you were used to Brunton police station coffee, you lost any pretensions to being a connoisseur. Peach said, ‘I thought we should come and have a word. Clear up one or two things.’ He was watching her closely as he took sips of his coffee and piled up the clichés. She had given them the two armchairs and curled her knees beneath her on the sofa. Even in a skirt, she managed to do that gracefully, without flashing too much satiny thigh at them. She did not seem nervous.
Carmen said politely, ‘How’s the investigation going? Are you near to an arrest yet?’
He wondered how carefully that was calculated. It was innocent enough, but it subtly distanced her from any central part in the case. He said with a smile, ‘You wouldn’t
expect me to tell you if we were.’
She wrinkled her forehead for an instant, then smiled back. ‘No, I don’t expect I would. I’d forgotten that you knew I had experience of policemen in my past, Inspector Peach. They were not British policemen, though. Barbadian police and American police are more excitable. More — confrontational, I think we psychologists would call it.’
Peach smiled. Confrontation was very much his style in normal circumstances. He remembered being distinctly confrontational with this woman, at their last meeting, when he had raised those very criminal acts to which she had just referred. But this morning’s were not normal circumstances.
Peach took another appreciative pull at his coffee, crunched a mouthful of shortbread without hurry, and said, ‘Your name keeps coming up in this case, Miss Campbell. Sometimes in unexpected contexts. You’d be surprised how many people have mentioned you.’
If she was dismayed or irritated by this, she did not show it. She picked up a biscuit and nibbled it in turn, almost in a mocking parody of Peach’s action. Her eyes never left his face throughout the action. Then she said, ‘Is that supposed to alarm me, Inspector Peach?’
‘Not at all. I thought you might find it interesting, I suppose. It interests me, from a professional point of view. I find that people who figure in everyone’s thoughts usually have some part in a crime.’ He doubted even as he said it whether that was true, but he kept his features bland, his slight smile constant.
‘Interesting. But in this case, perhaps you’d expect most people to be aware of me. I’m fairly noticeable, it seems to me. Most people remember me. I expect it’s my colour, you see.’ She grinned at them both, switching her eyes from Peach to Blake, enjoying her tease. ‘I’d expect the wife to be aware of her husband’s sins, and Ruth Carter is no fool. And Walter Culpepper, though I like him, lives on the site and makes it his business to know everything that’s going on around the place. And as he hated George Carter, he was probably well aware of any small conquests like me which the man enjoyed.’
She’d mentioned two of his suspects, so she was taking a lively interest in his investigation. But you’d expect that, when the victim was a man she’d slept with. She’d want to know who had shot her lover, even if as she claimed the affair would not have lasted much longer. She hadn’t mentioned Malcolm McLean, so perhaps she hadn’t heard of this recent development. Nor had she raised the name of the Reverend Tom Matthews. But perhaps she didn’t know of his relationship with Ruth Carter: the pair seemed to have concealed it pretty well, even if that twenty-first century John Aubrey who was Walter Culpepper had found out about it.
As if she read his thoughts, Lucy Blake said quietly, ‘Have you been to the University Chaplaincy recently, Miss Campbell?’
The huge brown eyes, which had been studying Peach for any clue about his thoughts, transferred themselves calmly to Lucy Blake’s young, earnest face beneath the aureole of red-brown hair. ‘Not for many months now, no. Presumably there’s a reason for that question?’
The blue-green eyes were as unblinking as Carmen Campbell’s as Lucy said, ‘He was another man we have been talking to about this death. Another man who mentioned you.’
Carmen smiled. ‘I can’t think why. I went there once or twice, when a couple of my students were using the place. I was curious, that’s all. When one is working in a new place, one tries to find out as much as one can about the environment. He was a nice man, Tom Matthews, but we don’t believe in the same things.’ She smiled, presumably at the thought of how different their creeds were. ‘Do you think he killed George Carter?’
Peach smiled back at her, acknowledging the fact that he had no monopoly of the abrupt question. ‘Tom Matthews is an expert shot.’
She frowned. ‘I seem to remember that, now that you remind me of it. But the press releases say George was shot through the head at point-blank range. That doesn’t need any great skill, does it?’
‘No. But the Reverend Matthews happens to own a Smith and Wesson .357 revolver. Dr Carter was killed with one of those.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘But you can test it, can’t you? Check whether his was actually the weapon which killed George?’
Peach was reminded again that this woman had been involved in a shooting incident when she was at Harvard, even though she had never been accused of handling the gun herself. He smiled grimly. ‘We could, if we had the gun. The Reverend Matthews claims it was stolen from a locked drawer in the University Chaplaincy some time ago.’
She looked astonished. ‘And do you believe him?’
Peach had no idea whether he believed Matthews or not, though he had puzzled about the question ever since he had heard the story. But he said blandly, ‘I think I do, yes.’
She looked at him quizzically for a moment, then said, ‘That’s good to hear. I didn’t think the police believed anyone. But perhaps it still helps to be a clergyman, in Britain.’
Peach did not rise to the bait. Instead, he said, ‘Your boyfriend in Altrincham has confirmed that you were with him at the time of the murder.’
Carmen Campbell nodded. ‘I told you he would. I was with him from four o’clock last Saturday, right the way through the night. There were other people with us, at the concert and afterwards. Do you want details of The Who concert? I can give you the order of their songs, if you like. More than there was in the programme, which anyone could buy.’ She gave him a confident smile, mocking him, knowing that her story could not be shaken.
He smiled back. ‘As I say, Keith Padmore confirmed that you were with him at that time. Unfortunately, DC Murphy, who went to see him, is a bit of a stickler for detail, and he pressed him about the circumstances. Mr Padmore was unwise enough to tell him that there were drugs around that night.’
This time she was surprised. They could see her thinking quickly, wondering what the implications of the statement were for her. She said carefully, ‘As I remember it, there was a certain amount of pot smoked. Nothing else. And no one was selling the stuff.’
‘Possession is still against the law, in this country.’ Peach’s voice was at its steadiest, his face at its most inscrutable. ‘And we have only your word for it that nothing stronger was involved.’
‘So what do you propose to do about it?’
Peach leant forward a little. ‘Nothing, if it’s left to me. I have more than enough on my hands with a murder investigation. But you must understand, I have a young, enthusiastic detective constable, anxious for results to put on his curriculum sheet, suspicious of any old sweat of an inspector who seems to be standing in the way of his keenness.’ Percy offered up a mental apology to Brendan Murphy for the picture he was presenting.
Carmen Campbell studied Peach’s earnest countenance. She didn’t trust him, but she was still relatively new in the country, with convictions for drugs and an assault in her past. She said stiffly, ‘There was nothing more than pot involved. I thought you ignored that, when it was just recreational use.’
Lucy Blake took her cue. ‘Would you mind if I had a look round the place, while we’re here? It would help if we could report back that your flat was clear of drugs.’
The Barbadian looked hard at her. ‘Do I have a choice?’
‘I think you know you do. We haven’t a search warrant. We might not get one, even if we applied.’
They could see Carmen Campbell trying to decide what lay behind the request. A few seconds elapsed before she said, ‘It’s a long time since I had anything to do with serious drugs. But if I refuse, you’ll conclude the place is stuffed full of drugs, with my record.’
Lucy smiled at her. ‘And if it is, you’d have the place cleared and smelling as clean as a mountain stream, by the time we got back with a warrant!’
Carmen swept her feet from beneath her to the floor in a lithe movement. ‘Search to your heart’s content, DS Blake, you won’t find anything.’
Lucy was on her feet immediately. ‘Thank you. You may accompany me, if you wish.’
<
br /> Carmen shook her head. ‘If you’re going to plant anything, I won’t be able to prevent it. Not with two of you on the job. Leave the doors open and I’ll listen! And don’t pinch my shampoo!’
She and Peach watched each other like terrier and lithe black cat for a few moments, whilst they listed to the sounds of Lucy Blake opening and shutting drawers in the bedroom.
Peach said, ‘You said you were going to finish your affair with George Carter, even if he hadn’t been killed.’
‘Yes. I’m not sure it was anything as grand as an affair.’
‘It seems an unlikely liaison, for a girl like you.’
‘A woman like me, Inspector. I ceased to be a girl a long time ago now, and modern women don’t find the term very flattering.’
It was an unreal conversation, with both their minds on the sounds off-stage. Lucy Blake had left the room doors open as she entered, and they heard the door of the bathroom cabinet been eased back, the moving of bottles and packets inside it. Peach noticed that the flat’s occupier did not seem at all worried by the sounds as he said, ‘Nevertheless, from what we now know of Dr Carter, he seems an unlikely choice for you.’
‘Ah, but how little you know of me, Inspector! Wasn’t it a British composer who said you should try everything once, except folk-dancing and incest? It may well be the only chance I get to sleep with the head man of a university! I told you, power is a great aphrodisiac, for most women. I’m sure your colleague would confirm that.’
‘Why didn’t you go to Altrincham in your car last weekend?’
The sudden switch startled, but did not disconcert her. There was scarcely a pause before she said with a smile, ‘I didn’t fancy leaving my car outside Keith’s house for the weekend. And if I’m honest, I suppose I thought there might be a little pot-smoking on the Saturday. I didn’t want to be talked into driving the others about, if I’d had the odd spliff.’
‘So how did you get back from the concert in Manchester to Keith Padmore’s house?’